


Comfort In These Lies

by Pseudosanity



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, M/M, Pining, Sexual Content, Underage Sex, Unrequited Crush, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:49:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pseudosanity/pseuds/Pseudosanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How they felt wasn't mutual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort In These Lies

**Author's Note:**

> There’s a lot of Conphy fics where they’re secretly in love with each other, then it’s all happily ever after once they find out. I wanted to try something a little different.
> 
> It has been reread and edited, so any typos are mine.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Just my imagination.

_But if we walk in the light,_  
_as He is in the light,_  
_we have fellowship with one another._  
_— 1 John 1:7_

       “I need to speak with you.”

Whatever they needed to talk about was serious. He could tell immediately by the way Connor enunciated clearer, his fluid brogue lacking its usual bright melody (then again, Connor did have the better voice as far as being understood went). Murphy was curious, but his brother should know better than to attempt a conversation more than serious than _How fast does the world spin after your twelfth pint?_ It was a pub after all, not a court room—serious had no place here. They were getting shitfaced only because they no longer required fake IDs to buy drinks; gracious IDs used since they hit sixteen. _Thank God for early puberty._ Murphy had praised the first time it had worked and gulped his whiskey, proud of the then-dampened whiskers that had bracketed his mouth and chin. They could’ve had drinks safe at home, but there wasn’t any fun when the law granted that permission.

Instead of pointing out their original goal, Murphy acknowledged Connor with a small noise in his throat as he slowly raised a tall glass to his lips, distracted gaze set over Connor’s shoulder toward the nice-looking girl a few stools away. The woman was older, of course, but not by much. And since when had age ever mattered to Murphy? His illegal drinking began when he was a wee minor, so naturally sex hadn’t been too far off, give or take a couple of years. She wasn’t exceptionally pretty, albeit contrary to a lot of male views he didn’t like his girls model-attractive. Those types came with more problems than a fat ugly chick—no thanks. Average or cute was the way to go. He liked that she wasn’t shy either, having met his stares each time without backing down. Occasionally she smiled—or was it a smirk?—a bit at him before continuing about her business, but not for long. Eventually those shrewd brown eyes always returned to his mischievous blue.

         “Damn it, Murph, fuckin’ look at me when I’m fucking tryin’ ta talk ta y'!”

Strong fingers gripped his chin and jerked his head sharply to capture Murphy’s undivided attention. Connor looked furious, though that could’ve been the surplus liquor he had earlier putting fire in his glossy gaze. He refused to release Murphy, a blatant demand that he should listen if he knew what was best for him. Reluctantly, Murphy obeyed as his narrowed eyes painted his features into a scowl.

         “ _What_.” he snapped through clinched teeth.

Connor seemed very pleased with himself, mouth twitching into a brief smirk, before he slid the hand that held Murphy’s jaw toward the back of his neck. As his fingers clasped tight and his nails gently embedded skin, his lips pursed slightly, creases wrinkled his brow, pinching his face into a rigidly solemn mask, but Connor said nothing. Concern replaced the mild irritation that had risen in Murphy, wondering what was wrong.

         “Connor?” he tried casually, ignoring his weak timbre.

It summoned his focus (barely) again; Connor melted back, his hand sliding off and shaking his head too quickly to be assurance. “Nothing, it’s noth—I—Never mind.”

         “Go on, spit it out. Tell me.” Frowning, Murphy leaned closer on his forearm propped against the bar.

The sigh his brother exhaled worried Murphy further and he wanted to shake him because he was taking too long to open up. Sometimes Connor got like that, regardless if they’d been drinking or not. He’d simply shutdown, nary a word, peer off elsewhere, deep in his mind, too pensive for Murphy to follow his thoughts; a habit that scared the shit out of him yet he accepted because the quirk was Connor’s. He’d always been able to bring his twin back anyhow someway. Murphy only started noticing such behavior roughly three or four years ago—hell, maybe five. He wasn’t sure if that was when it began or if Connor had done his freaky zone out thing long before.

Finally he heard his voice again. “You’ll stay with me, right? No matter what?”

         “Aye, no matter what.” Murphy vowed, nodding.

         “Even if... if I say something hurtful ta y', do something y' wouldn’t like, something unforgivable? Even if my core is too rotten for the Devil ta keep—”

Murphy shook his head, hands waving to cut the direction his brother was headed, and shushed him. “Stop it, don’ ya think such things. That’s the Guinness talkin’, I know it. Ya listen ta me now,” He slung his arm over Connor’s shoulder, pulling him close enough their foreheads almost touched. An easy grin spread his lips, wanting to lessen the stifling mood. “Ain’t anythin’ ya can do I won’ forgive. You’re not rotten, ya hear me? Say it,”

Connor hesitated until Murphy cuffed the side of his head with another scowl. “I’m not rotten.”

         “S’righ'. Dunno why ya’d believe such a thing either. You’re good, Connor, your soul is pure— _clean_. If it wasn’t—which it ain’t!—doesn’t matter anyway ‘cause you’re my brother. I love you. More ‘specially when ya piss me off ‘cause you’re bein’ dense,” Murphy gave him a pointed look. The quip earned him a chuckle like he intended: a good sign. “I’m with ya, Connor. You’re stuck with me so get used ta it. Oh, an’...” Straightening, he patted his shoulder with a heavy hand, “buck up, man. You’re killin’ m’ buzz.”

Laughing, Connor nodded while he drew a bottle to his mouth, swallowing the remnants of alcohol. Murphy ordered him another and soon Connor was giddy again; no dour comments tumbled from him. Once he figured he’d be fine his sight diverted to his recent target. Her body language told him she was on the precipice of paying her tab to leave for the night. Quickly, he polished off the rest of his beverage, then turned to Connor. “Ya gonna be a’righ'? There’s somethin’ I gotta take care of, but if ya want I’ll—”

         “Go before she changes her mind. I’m fine, honestly.” Connor smiled brightly for his twin, a gesture Murphy returned. He saddled up to the twiggy brunette sifting through her wallet and Connor’s smile steadily decreased as he watched Murphy utter some words in her ear, earning him a slow smirk and nod and what Connor thought was a “About bloody time.” Grinning, Murphy stepped aside to let her up before he grasped her hand to guide her to a back door.

He should’ve looked away sooner—no, he shouldn’t have watched in the first place, but it was too late to erase the image of his beloved brother, head angled down, inching his mouth closer to that bitch as the door carefully swayed shut.

He waited. _Don’t get up, don’t get up, don’t get up. Stay where you are._ Yet the mantra was futile since Connor crossed the bar toward the exit moments later. He didn’t go out, only leaned against the wall, his head resting against cheap plaster and aquatic gaze hidden behind tired eyelids. Absently he noted the tattered door hadn’t fully closed thanks to faulty hinges and its worn frame. When Connor strained his ear he heard sounds that he guessed were her pleas and gasps coupled with Murph’s tiny grunts and brazen curses. He knew exactly what those rhythmic, muffled thuds that vaguely shook the wall were.

Torture was what he was doing to himself. Who in their right mind would eavesdrop on two people having sex? Inside the pub of the alley they occupied was next to, no less. Despite the jealousy that boiled within his veins, he felt himself responding to the idea of Murphy in action, slender hips canting in sultry precision to reach ultimate bliss, elegant hands digging into shivery skin as they coaxed heated flesh undone. Connor swallowed down a moan when he launched from his perch and vanished into a small bathroom for much needed privacy.

         _God forgive me._

* * *

That hadn’t been the first time, nor the last, that Connor witnessed Murphy go off with some manky woman. Murphy had reached sexual awareness at a young age ( _“Jesus Christ, you’re fucking fourteen, carryin’ around like some master lothario. Congratulations, want a fucking medal, y' ape? Thick as a brick, y' are—you’re still just a kid for fuck’s sake!” “ ‘M_ fifteen _, damn ya! The both of us as of t’morrow! Plenty grown ‘nough ta do as I please without ya breathin’ down my neck. Why don’t ya get off m’ fuckin’ back, Conn, an’ get ya'self some tail. Maybe it’ll break the stick shoved in your ass. Jesus.”)_ and he’d taken full advantage of appearing older than he really was. Connor, on the other hand, was a gimp in comparison despite being well practiced by now, though he’d waited until he was sixteen.

Yes, Murphy was quite open about his promiscuity, indelibly unashamed regardless of the disdainful glances he received from adults and youths alike. Sometimes, just to be a bastard, he winked at them or slowly licked his lips, maybe both if he felt particularly generous. His only saving grace was being smart enough to wear protection and get frequently tested. The Lord was surely with him since every time his brother stepped out ‘negative’ as well as no surprise children popping up. Neither did Murphy care where he got laid so long as it happened. Usually with fellow classmates he went to her house after school because she tended to be too paranoid of getting caught (such wasn’t always the case considering Connor had turned down one too many corridors to find Murph and his latest conquest crammed in a nook somewhere). Then there were the wretched times he brought his “girlfriends” to their house for a session on the sofa. Always when Ma was away unless he risked going deaf from her imitation of a banshee.

Those were times Connor hated the most.

He could handle Murphy’s escapades elsewhere—they were public or pseudo-private, which never crossed into his domain. Home was Connor’s sanctuary, or as close to it as he’d get in their Catholic town with all the inbred iniquity that plagued his mind. It was rare for Murphy to disrespect the MacManus abode by bringing slags over, but he also thought more with his cockhead than the head attached to his neck, rationalizing it was okay if nobody was there when he’d invited them. Alas, he failed to comprehend not seeing didn’t equate to not knowing.

Connor’s sagacity was keen enough that he’d figured out what occurred before he'd unlocked the front door. The vibe was just... _different_. A sense of botched equilibrium would saturate the air, leaving behind an ominous cloud that intruded throughout the house wherever he stepped.

Not this time. Maybe sports had gradually hacked his nerves (Connor had been part of tennis then basketball at the start of the school until switching over to hurling and sticking with it) and today’s practice had been grueling. But not one to admit defeat, Connor pushed it aside as easily as he pushed open the front door and shut it behind him.

         “Murph, I’m back,” he called, dropping his coat on the wall hanger. “You here too, Ma?” The lack of a response was the best answer.

Connor poured a glass of water before climbing the stairs two at a time, eager to collapse on his bed and grateful there was no homework to be done. The resounding peace made perfect sense yet in the back of his mind he thought it strange the place was so quiet since Annabelle MacManus hadn’t arrived from her own personal happy hour.

What didn’t make sense was entering his shared bedroom to find it occupied by someone other than just Murphy. School bag tumbling from his hand, Connor stood immobile, mouth agape, fingers squeezing a death grip on his cup, as his confusion morphed into vindictive betrayal. The girl was a familiar face that had accompanied Murphy lately ( _“It’s serious with Aisling.”_ ), but he’d never seen her delicate features churned by the intense throes of passion. With her head tossed back at an alarming degree that mimicked the bow of her spine, her cascade of long inky waves brushed her white-knuckled hold on his pale thighs, her bottom lip trapped below her teeth so hard she might tear it off as high-pitched whimpers wrenched from her throat with every rough thrust Murphy drove into her. His hands resembled claws clutching the curves of her waist, his fingerprints already bruised on blushing skin, hauling her back on his cock when she rose so high she nearly dislodged him. Underneath the poor lamplight sweat glistened their skin, adding an oddly sleek grace to their primitive motions, yet both remained ignorant of the onlooker whose stomach knotted further and further the longer he watched, powerless against the squalid montage and cacophonies that charred his psyche.

For a split second he didn’t recognize that lurid sob as his own when he dropped his water. A burst of them gutted his vocal chords, deafening the commotion of startled shouts and bustled blankets which resonated from the bed. Dimly he heard a sweet rasp of “Connor?!” ruined by a feminine “You told me he wouldn’t be here!”

It was too much to handle. Silver grooves continuously scratched down his cheeks as he scrubbed his despondent tears with the heels on his palms and clumsy feet stumbled when he tried backing away, out of the tarnished bedroom. Two insistent hands clamped over his biceps, yanked him inside, close to the furnace of Murphy’s naked skin. He wanted to resist the automatic comfort, especially since he knew _why_ Murphy was so warm, but Connor had exhausted himself fighting the urges his brother seized deep within him and he collapsed into a bare chest, eyes screwed shut as his nails clutched Murphy, pressed into the rope of muscle stocked along his shoulders. Hapless tremors racked his frame, only partially subsided by precious arms that wove around Connor, and a redeemed hand petted his tawny locks.

         “Hush now, Conn—I’m here, I’ve got you.” Murphy soothed, voice quiet next to Connor’s ear.

         “What the hell is wrong with him? He sick?”

Connor broke. Shoving his brother aside, he barged toward the girl and thrashed against the abrupt restraint of Murphy’s arms. “ _Get the fuck out_! _Leave, y' worthless cunt_! _The likes of you aren’t wanted here_!”

The look on Aisling face was a warped mix of affronted embarrassment and expectancy that her boyfriend would jump to her rescue. Until Murphy actually did contribute. “Yeah, you should go.”

Her jaw dropped. “You can’t be seri—”

         “Christ, would ya jus’ fuckin’ get the hell outta here already?” Murphy chucked Aisling her clothes. “Can’t ya see he _needs_ me?”

Aisling huffed as she tugged her garments on with haste. An uttered “Fuck you both.” reached them as she passed the brothers on her door-slamming exit. Murphy rolled his eyes. _Give her a ring later_. he reminded himself, an abstract decision, while his full attention resumed on Connor. A grimace set hard on his mouth.

Connor slowly tipped his head back, running his hands down his face. “Unbelievable... She just about does your head in. Lord have mercy, Murph, what is it that y' see in her?”

Murphy knew what his brother doing, so he indulged him for a little while. “She’s got great tits an’ makes me laugh.” Connor didn’t get the joke, simply turned around like he was about to go somewhere. “Oh no, don’t ya fuckin’ move!” He hurried to block an escape, arms outstretched, glaring.

         “Step aside, Murphy.” His twin looked so tired.

There was no way he was budging now. “What’s your malfunction?”

         “Not now, man.”

         “Yes _now_. Speak, damn it, or so help me I’ll kill ya.”

When Connor merely shrugged— _shrugged_ like his life meant nothing—Murphy attacked. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to throw a punch or embrace him, but whatever his intentions his trajectory accidently knocked their foreheads together and they veered to the side, grousing curses at the collision of first a dresser, then the jab of the doorknob. Both eventually sagged against chipped wood. It took a moment to get their bearings, although Murphy didn’t have time to figure out what that thing was in his brother’s pocket, poking him.

         “Y' fucking idiot, what’s wrong with you!” Connor barked as he rubbed his sore hip.

         “I’m not the one sproutin’ waterfalls one fuckin’ minute an’ goin’ Incredible Hulk the fuckin’ next!” Murphy grabbed his shirt and gave him a good shake before pinning him to the door. “Ain’t gonna fuckin’ ask y' a-fuckin’-gain, Connor: what—the—fuck—is—wrong—with—ya?”

Silence. The kind that staggered dangerously between regret and courage due to words not spoken. They stared at each other without blinking: one seething for reasons because the person dearest to his heart refused to let him in; second praying to go numb so he’d cease the maelstrom of emotions that threatened to gush free at any moment because he was denied what he should never want.

         “You brought her here.”

Murphy almost hadn’t heard his brother, his whisper too quiet. “Huh? I didn’t catch that. Speak a li’l’ louder, Conn.”

         “I said you brought a useless girl in here!” Unshed tears, angry now, stung his eyes as Connor raised his voice. “ _Here_ , in _our_ room. Y' brought her here and soiled everything! No one but us is allowed in our room, that’s what we agreed on, remember? We shook hands in that very spot _there_ ,” Connor pointed at a narrow area that spaced their beds apart. “You broke your promise, brother. Broke it for _her_.” He spat the word with such disgust it made Murphy flinch.

Gaping at Connor as guilt twanged inside his ribcage, he slowly relinquished the fabric of a team jersey, nodding gravelly. “Shit, I’m sorry, Connor, I’m so sorry. I’m a prick, a'righ'. Forgive an’ forget? I promise it won’ happen ever again, I mean it,”

Connor started to smile.

“I won’ bring ‘em ta the house from now on.”

The smile evaporated.

Murphy found himself tripping over his feet and falling on the ground when he was viciously shoved. Once more his wide eyes regarded Connor, astonished and confused, as he tried to solve what he’d done or said to warrant the assault. “What the hell! I told ya I _wouldn’t_ bring ‘em here anymore!”

         “Jesus fucking Christ, y' don’t get it, do you? You’re a fucking imbecile! _Fuck_.” Connor seethed, hands clenching his wild hair too tightly.

         “Stop that unless ya fuckin’ wanna go bald.”

         “You’re not listening!”

         “Well, ya think if ya would stop havin’ mood swings an’ inflictin’ pain on ya'self, maybe I’d concentrate better?”

         “Y' honestly don’t get it.” He was incredulous.

Murphy grew tired of the cryptic bullshit. “What am I not gettin’, man? I’m missin’ somethin’ so I need ya ta enlighten me, please.”

         “You’re a retard, that’s what,” Connor frowned. “But I guess I am too.”

When he turned to leave, Murphy didn’t get up to stop him. Instead something dawned on him while he watched Connor depart: suddenly he became aware during their entire argument he’d been naked and that so-called unknown thing poking him hadn’t been in Connor’s pocket.

 

 

_Love does not delight in evil_  
_but rejoices with the truth._  
_It always protects, always trusts,_  
_always hopes, always perseveres._  
_Love never fails._  
_— 1 Corinthians 13:6-8_

Murphy ended it with Aisling five days later. He stopped having not-so-secret meetings with eager girls and older women. An epiphany in disguise occurred where he paid extra attention to his brother. They needed to discuss so many things, but where the hell to start was lost to him. Before Murphy thought he’d done a good job solving the riddle that was Connor MacManus, but apparently not. He’d simply scratched the surface.

_What a wake up call that was._

Although he still wasn’t sure if he’d wanted one or not. What if he had let that call ring for the answer machine to catch and deleted it without ever hearing a word? Would their interaction be so different as it was now, would Connor still give him the cold shoulder whenever he was nearby? Murphy wasn’t sure, but he hoped not. The silent treatment murdered him bit by bit. It was how he really knew Connor was pissed at him and no matter how contrite Murphy was, regardless of the countless attempts of breaking the ice, a brick wall had replaced his brother. There weren’t any ridges for him to stick his fingers and toes on to climb over either; he just fell on his ass with scraped palms only to try again that same day.

When he got fed up Murphy began leaving notes, putting them in places he knew his brother would find, but not Ma. At first they were just _‘Sorry’_ and _‘Forgive me’_ before it progressed to _‘Please I’m desperate’_ and _‘Don’t do this to me Connor not you’_ and _‘Tell me what I should do to make it right between us’_ , then _‘How long will this last?’_ to _‘I’m not fucking giving up you bastard’_ when it neared the end of a week. He scribbled another note a few hours later and waited.

_‘Are you even getting these Connor? Feels like I’m writing to a ghost. But ghosts leave signs behind for people they love, messages that they’re there. It’s the dead that’s mute. Have you died Connor are you dead? Am I the ghost?’_

His handwriting was a bit shakier at the finish (he never wanted to put _dead_ and _Connor_ in the same sentence), but he refused to redo it—couldn’t.

Three days into the second week he received an answer.

_‘No, Murph, I’m not dead. I’m sorry that I put you through Hell, I am, I just didn’t know what to say to you. I’ve treated you so poorly these last couple of days and I don’t really have any excuses why and you probably hate my guts right now because I can’t give you a better answer, but... I’m sorry. Will that be enough?’_

Murphy was too relieved to think much about the quizzical response, merely glad Connor no longer ignored him, had written back, but he didn’t want the paper barriers between them anymore. It was starting to get ridiculous.

_‘Quit being daft. I’m the one that’s supposed to be apologizing. But if you want my forgiveness there’s something you can do for me.’_

_‘What’s that?’_

_‘Talk to me. Face to face. Please. I miss your voice Connor.’_

There weren’t any more notes following that one. For a brief moment Murphy feared he pushed too soon, but what sense did it make for someone to write back if they didn’t want to be heard? He told his nerves to shut up, but they didn’t listen because it was a weekend and even on weekends Connor had practice early. _Jesus fucking Christ, I hate sports._ Murphy didn’t leave the house all day, even did the chores Ma told him about without complaint, and the one time Connor called to inform them Coach Malone was making them stay overtime for the upcoming game Murphy had been using the toilet. Rather than cuss his mother out for not getting him, he lied about having a stomache and stomped up to his shared bedroom.

No sooner had he collapsed face first on Connor’s bed did his lights go out. He was roused back to consciousness with gentle shakes on his shoulder and soft murmurs in his ear. Gradually the voice became distinct, instantaneously noticeable.

         “Open your eyes, my dear brother. I’ve come home.”

He flipped around so fast Connor startled yet Murphy clamped his arms around his neck, pulling him down into an impenetrable lock surrounding his twin’s heavenly silhouette. “What the hell took ya so damn long?” The laugh that erupted irritated him. “Ya know you’re a bastard, don’t ya? Bastard. Bastard, bastard, bastard!”

         “Aye,” Grinning, Connor slipped his arms along Murphy’s back, then rolled them both on their sides, noses inches apart. “The Bastard and the Baby—my favorite fairytale.”

         “Oh, I’m so glad you’re makin’ jokes, Conn. Meanwhile over here in _Shitville_ I’ve been drivin’ m’self fuckin’ crazy thinkin’ I done somethin’ wrong _again_ ‘cause ya didn’ give me a proper answer. Have I mentioned how mucha fuckin’ bastard ya are?”

         “Mm, y' have, aye.”

         “It bears repeatin’.”

         “I showed up. Here I am. That’s not a proper enough answer for y', Murph?” He raised an eyebrow at the glare, although a frown ironed his lips.

         “For now.”

Murphy drew closer to his other half, tucked his head beneath Connor’s chin, and sighed long and slow, content. Connor squeezed him a little tighter as if trying to absorb him into his body and he had to admit it felt wonderful knowing his brother still wanted him in his life. Murphy pondered if he ever stopped wanting that for even a millisecond. Sliding a palm over an identical heartbeat, Murphy concluded no, Connor would never want such lunacy.

Minutes ticked by in amiable quiet, the two focusing on the musical exhales each produced. Awhile passed before Murphy’s tongue tingled with a question that had nagged his brain.

         “Are ya gonna tell me?” he mumbled.

A tiny drowsy noise emitted from Connor. “Sorry, what was that?”

         Shuffling near to comfort themselves and in case the other boy retracted his hold, Murphy eyed a grass stain on Connor’s shirt. “The reason ya broke down an’ wouldn’t talk ta me afterwards. Will ya let me know what it was about?”

As predicted Connor tensed, but didn’t lurch away. “It’s not impor—”

         “Bullshit, Connor. None of that now, I mean it. Tell me what it is that’s plaguin’ ya. Lemme help.”

         “... Y' can’t, Murphy, you can’t.”

         “Liar. Why not?”

         “It’s between me and God.”

         “Connor!”

         “Will y' jus' let it go, please?”

         “There’s nothin’ God knows about ya that I don’t already, ya insufferable fucker! We came outta the same womb— _t'gether_ —or did ya forget?”

         “ ’Course not—it’s part of the problem!”

Murphy jerked back to gawk at him, wounded. “What’re ya sayin’?” His whisper was a raspy chill, a chuff of astounded bewilderment. He wouldn’t allow Connor to stay silent as he slapped him hard across the face, immediately getting attention that shouldn’t have been diverted. “ _Answer me_.”

         “I... I... You have ta u-understand that I...”

         “Connor,” He paused. “Is this 'bout how ya feel for me?”

Connor’s eyes were huge pools of terrified blue.

Murphy stayed silent.

         “That’s it, isn’ it?” he urged.

Connor sat up, shock draining the color from his cheeks, as he gazed without blinking at his hands resting in his lap. “... How?” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “How d’you know? When’d y' figure it out?”

He copied his brother’s position, sighing. “I pieced it t’gether not ta long ago honestly. Ya were—well, ya were _excited_ , Conn, when we—uh—durin’ the—y’know, our fight,” Murphy awkwardly scratched the angle of his jaw, mouth twisted to one side. “I jus’ thought it was the heat of the moment, but I mean we didn’t really tussle much, eh? Kinda stood there blatherin’ at each other an’ then I remembered when we were at the bar, it was like ya were confessin’ ta me ‘bout somethin’ ya ain’t ever done before, so I... Well, the point is that I know an’ I don’t care, a’righ'?”

         “You what?” Connor pivoted toward him, eyebrows screwed in disbelief.

Murphy shrugged with a kind smile. “Ya heard me. It’s no big deal.”

         “How the fuck can y' say that?” he hissed, angry that his twin couldn’t see the sin for what it was. “Shit, man, we’re _blood_ , Murphy. God punishes those that prey on their own kin.”

Murphy’s eyes rolled. “Oh, sorry, I musta forgot when ya held me down against m’ will an’ raped me.”

The swat to his arm shouldn’t have surprised him, but the strength behind it did. He winced with a sharp “Jesus, fuck!” stinging the air. “It’s not a fuckin’ joke, damn y', this is serious!”

Growling, Murphy hit Connor upside his head. “ 'M bein’ serious, ya retard. Fuckin’ relax a minute, will ya, or I’ll knock some sense inta ya. Looket me, Connor,” Murphy squeezed his shoulder and gestured two fingers at his own eyes that had become hard and relentless. “D’you love me, brother?”

Connor stared at him, puzzled, as if it was a stupid query (which it was). “Yeah, of course.”

         “Say it.”

         “I love you, Murphy.”

         “An' what does that mean ta ya?”

Connor thought over a suitable answer, but even when he decided on one he didn’t think it covered everything. “It means I want ta be right besides y' always, make sure you’re happy when you wake up and when y' go ta sleep. I wanna protect y' from any harm that tries to befall y'—doesn’t matter I know that you can protect yourself; I gotta do it too. I want... I want ta see what you see, hear what y' hear, think your thoughts, and tell you how brilliant y' are every day, not just with words but my actions too. With a smile or a kiss or your favorite meal and maybe even a rub down ‘cause I know how sore y' can get. When y' get inta fights I’ll ‘tend your wounds while swearin’ vengeance on the motherfuckers that did that ta y'. I want ta be your solace whenever you’re upset or pissed and spittin’ fumes, especially if I’m the cause, though I hope never ta be—at least not permanently. I can’t give you the world, Murph, that’s impossible, but I can give y' m'self; I can make a world for us, jus' us two. I _need_ you with me, more than you’ll ever need me, this I’m certain of.”

A slow smile decorated Murphy’s features as he gently pet golden hair away from the precious worship radiating in his brother’s eyes. “I’ll always need ya, Conn,” he chuckled softly. “Now... can ya tell me which part of your definition of love deserves any punishment?”

After a brief moment he shook his head, entranced by the sweetness of Murphy’s faintly gruff tenor, calmed by his easy acquiescence.

         “Yeah, I reckoned ya couldn’t. Seems ta me us bein’ related ain’t a sin at all, it’s sacred. You’re my blessin’, Conn.”

         “... Aye. And you’re mine, Murphy.”

Connor closed his eyes when a chaste kiss landed atop his forehead. Its warmth lingered long after those perfect lips withdrew.


End file.
